


It's Okay

by karcathy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Zombie Apocalypse, also i just realised i never actually referred to tavros by name but yeah its tavros pov, this is pretty angsty but also fluffy so idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karcathy/pseuds/karcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tavros and Gamzee are left to survive a zombie apocalypse together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Okay

You could still walk before it happened. Now you can’t, but the dead can. Maybe that’s ironic, but you mostly find it inconvenient. Paralysed from the waist down, you’re completely vulnerable on your own. You suppose you’re lucky, then, to have Gamzee. He’s permanently drunk or high – you’re not sure which – but he’s tall and strong, and deadly, despite his dazed demeanour. Together, you make a surprisingly good team, with you balanced on his shoulders, wielding the sharpened stick you call a lance, and him swinging his juggling clubs with astonishing accuracy. You would say you’re an unstoppable force against the dead, but really, it’s barely enough to stay alive. You spend most of your time in your hideout, with Gamzee occasionally venturing out to find food, and only leave when you have to move on. It’s a life that varies between terror and boredom, and neither state is especially desirable. At least you have company.

 

Right now is one of the more boring times. Gamzee is drinking shitty soda, high on whatever soporific he found last, and you’re sketching designs for a pair of robotic legs. You have a feeling they’d make your life a whole lot easier, if only you could actually make them. You really wish your legs still worked.

“What’s that you’re drawing?” Gamzee asks, looking lazily over at you.

“Just some legs,” you say, shrugging.

He nods sympathetically, and offers you his soda bottle. You shake your head, and go back to doodling.

“Have you ever been sober?” you ask, sketching a wonky foot.

“Not that I motherfucking remember,” he replies, with an expansive shrug.

You nod, drawing the outline of an ankle, and wonder how much of his drug he has left.

“How much food have we, uh, got left?” you ask, glancing over at the battered cardboard box you use as a cupboard.

Gamzee pushes himself up, leans over, and peers into the box.

“Not all that motherfucking much,” he says, shrugging, “’Spose I oughta go get some more.”

“You think we should move on soon?” you ask, and he just shrugs.

You begin to wish he’d sober up a little. You don’t think you’ll last too long like this.

 

He goes out looking for food the next day, and comes back empty-handed. You sort through your remaining food, decide it’s enough for another two days, and tell him you ought to move on now. He agrees, and gathers up the last up your food into a battered leather satchel, which he hangs across his torso so it rattles against his hip. You grab your stick-lance, and he swings you up onto his shoulders, picking you up more easily than you would have thought possible before. He grabs his clubs, and carefully carries you outside. You flinch away from the harshly bright sunlight – you haven’t seen the light of day for at least a week. It’s safer for you to stay indoors, where they can’t find you. Well, you hope they can’t find you, anyway.

 

As Gamzee walks and you keep a lookout for the dead, your mind begins to wander. You start to wonder about what it would be like to be one of them. Maybe you’d get to use your legs again... that might be nice. On the other hand, you’d also be dead, and a mindless slow-moving killer. Overall, you think it’d be best to stay alive. Speaking of which, you’d better stop brooding and start watching. They could have been right behind you and you’d have never seen them, you were so absorbed in thought.

“How, uh, far are we going this time?” you ask, twisting around so you look look down the dusty road behind you.

You’re just leaving the edge of this small, forsaken town. There wasn’t much left for you, but you took what you could. Sometimes you feel like you’re an unnecessary burden to Gamzee, but it’s not like he’d have anyone else without you. Who’d want to spend the apocalypse with a juggalo?

“Far as the next town, I suppose,” Gamzee replies, shifting you into a more comfortable position – for him, at least.

“Still didn’t find a map?”

He shakes his head, his matted hair sliding through your fingers, which are loosely threaded through it as a precaution against falling, although by now, you mostly trust him not to drop you.

“How many more places are there out here?” you ask, talking more to yourself than to him.

 _How much longer will there be food left for the likes of us?_ you add, in the privacy of your own mind, and you don’t think you want to know the answer.

“I guess so long as we don’t end up in the middle of motherfucking nowhere we’ll keep on finding somewhere,” Gamzee says, sounding almost philosophical, and you sigh.

“That, uh, isn’t much comfort.”

 

It takes you a whole day of walking, stopping occasionally to eat, to reach another village. It’s even smaller than the last place, and looks completely gutted, but you haven’t seen a single one of them all day. You find a bar with a relatively secure basement, and Gamzee leaves you down there whilst he goes off to look for food. You find a couple of candles and light one. The murky light is just enough for you to make out the vague outline of your surroundings. All the remnants of alcohol in storage, none of the booze. You think it’s almost a pity. Getting drunk might help you to forget everything that’s happened. By the look of it, a lot of people have had the same idea. You get the feeling it’s going to be a long wait.

 

Gamzee comes back, what you think must be at least an hour later, with some food, but not much.

“Not so much left, huh,” you say, looking over what he found.

“Enough for now,” he says, shrugging and sitting down.

You sigh, and search through it for something that can be eaten cold. You don’t feel up to cooking at the moment, and besides that, you think a fire might not be such a good idea down here.

“Okay, well, there’s, uh, tinned peaches,” you say, holding your candle up to the label, “And pears, and, uh, I think that’s grapefruit. I guess, we could, um, have a fruit salad?”

Gamzee just nods, his eyes closed, so you dig out the can opener and two bent, rusty forks and open the tins. You hand Gamzee the pears, and start on the peaches.

“You want some pears?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“I think you should have the grapefruit,” you say, slurping the syrup and trying to ignore the growling of your stomach, “You, uh, need it more, after all.”  
He shakes his head, but doesn’t stop you from pushing the can into his hand. You think he’s probably a lot hungrier than you are.

“Thanks, man,” he says, with a lazy grin, as he gulps down the last of the pear syrup, sloshing it across his cheeks.

“No problem.”

You give him a slightly nervous grin, and run your finger around the inside of the can. You lick the syrup off of it, then drag it around again, this time catching it on the jagged edge and cutting it just above the knuckle. Cursing, you suck on the cut. Blood decorates the side of the can and it stings like hell.

“Hey, you okay?” Gamzee asks, leaning forward with a concerned look.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, nodding, with your finger still in your mouth, “Jus’ cut myself.”

“You gotta cover that up,” he says, pulling a crumpled band-aid from his pocket and handing it to you, “Here.”

You smile gratefully and wrap the band-aid around your finger, carefully covering the cut.

“You should be more careful,” he says, sliding over to you and wrapping his arm around your shoulder, “You’re all I’ve got, man.”

“You’re all I’ve got, too,” you say, smiling up at him.

He grins, then leans in closer, and before you know it, he’s kissing you. He’s gentle – almost hesitant – and his lips are barely touching yours, but you have no idea how to react. You didn’t know he felt like this about you, and you don’t know how you feel about him, and the world is ending around you whilst you’re being kissed for the first time and if that’s not terrifying you don’t know what is. You’re so overwhelmed you just kiss him back, taking the only course of action that seems to make sense in this upside-down mess of a world. He pulls back, laughing, the sound tinged with a hint of relief, and you smile.

“Sorry for being all sudden and all,” he says, leaning back into the pile of vaguely soft objects you’ve gathered together into a makeshift bed.

“It’s all right,” you say, lying down next to him and resting your head on his chest.

You listen to the sound of his heartbeat, and it’s a surprisingly comforting reminder that despite everything, you’re still alive. You’re still clinging on, and that’ll do for now.

 

You don’t know what time you wake up. Everything is dark underground, at every time of day, and your candle has burnt out. You curse yourself for leaving it burning all night – now you only have one left, unless Gamzee finds some more. Speaking of which, you suddenly notice he’s no longer beside you.

“Gamzee?” you whisper, groping around for the candle and matches, “Where are you?”

You’re not sure why you’re whispering, but it feels like a good idea. Your hand finally stumbles across the candle, and you light it, carefully, then hold it up so you can look around. You can’t see Gamzee anywhere.

“Gamzee?” you say again, a little louder, just in case.

The basement door creaks open, a dusty streak of sunlight illuminating the dark room.

“Is that you?” you ask, squinting up into the light.

A dark shape blocks out the light, and as your eyes adjust, you see it’s Gamzee.

“Oh, it is you,” you say, sighing with relief, “Good, uh, morning.”

“Good morning?” he says, so quietly you barely hear it.

You frown at his tone: it seems unusually flat.

“Uh, what?” you ask.

“I was saying,” he continues, almost shouting the words in that same flat, calm tone, “That it doesn’t seem like a good morning to me.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling more vulnerable than ever, “Well, uh, I, think that, um, where have you been?”

“I just went out to look for some motherfucking food,” he says, his voice quiet again.

You begin to realise what’s going on. Suddenly, you don’t think you want Gamzee to be sober after all.

“Oh, uh, right. Did you, uh, find any?”

“Does it look like I motherfucking found any?” he shouts, leaning into the basement, and you edge backwards, dragging yourself along with your hands.

“Sorry,” you mutter, looking away from him.

“Not like you could do anything, anyway,” he says, softly.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice breaking, and tears start to spill down your cheeks, “I’m sorry.”

“You fucking cripple!” he screams, and you flinch, closing your eyes and covering your face with one arm.

The only sound you can hear for a moment is your stifled sobbing and the sound of your heart hammering in your ears, but then he’s right next to you and his hand is on your shoulder and you can’t move and you’ve never been so terrified in your life.

“Aw, shit, I’m sorry,” he says, his voice gentle, and you look up at him, tears blurring your vision.

You stay frozen for a moment, then relax, twisting around and carefully stroking his hair.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice hoarse and barely audible.

He closes his eyes and hums, and you smile.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, stroking his hair again, and you think that, just maybe, it will be.  


End file.
